Gathering Darkness
by midnight-blue
Summary: Samantha disappears...
1. Part 1

**Title:** Gathering Darkness   
**Author:** Kristin   
**E-mail:** autumn_rain86@hotmail.com   
**Summary:** Samantha disappears... 

***************

Often, it seemed, she invaded his thoughts with a casual smile, a pat on the shoulder, and a suggestive, sly lean against his desk when a case was closed and the office was shutting down for the night. 

In the silence, most of all, his mistakes would come to haunt him. Marie seemed now like an old friend that he barely remembered but never forgot. Samantha, in the months since his divorce, had been a beacon of hope. She was his redemption and most days he wondered how he had been without her. 

He slipped his coat around his body and flicked off the light as he left his office, stepping into the big room where an even greater sense of loneliness came over him. He saw her then, by the window, arms crossed as she stared down at the city. 

"What are you still doing here?" 

Softly touching her shoulder, he leaned in close. "Sam?" 

She turned to face him and dropped her arms, walking towards the white board. Her steps were slow and hesitant, not like her usual walk. Sometimes he could hear her before she spoke as her steps played a tune upon the floor. Samantha Spade had a walk all her own; one of strength and determination and innocence. 

Sam placed a finger on the board where just a few hours earlier, a face and a name had once existed in this world. Now, though, in the dark of night, that face was a mere memory, erased from earth like so many others. She stared at the board for a moment and Jack ached for the hope that seemed to always exist within her, in spite of the world which seemed to always let her down. 

Crossing her arms once more, she spoke low, with a resigned tone in her voice that puzzled him. 

"You know Jack, some days I hate coming here...but most days, I hate leaving." 

He would've thought the opposite, but in a way, it made sense. She wanted to keep going for those who still had a chance. 

Jack rubbed a hand across her back and thought of anything he could say to reassure her. They'd gone through this before, and they'd go through it again, and it would never get easier. 

"Sam, I still believe there's good out there. I still believe that tomorrow, when we walk in here, we're going to do the best job we can and one less family will have to say goodbye, one less person will have to face a morning alone. It's the most we can hope for and the best we can do. And somehow, that has to be enough." 

It has to be. 

He handed her the coat draped over the chair. 

"So, we still on for dinner tomorrow?" 

This time, she perked up a little. "Yeah, I've been craving Italian." 

Leading her out of the quiet building, he kept a protective hand over on the small of her back. 

Snow was blanketing the ground as they stepped out into the frigid air. He squashed the fear rising up in his mind. She had taken the subway a hundred times, tonight would be no different. 

But, he thought, he hadn't been in love with her those hundred times before and that made all the difference. 

"I'll be fine, Jack." 

He smiled at her under the streetlights. She knew him too well and that was where they got into trouble. 

"I know you will." 

They stood next to his car. "Are you sure you don't want a ride, Sam?" 

"It's out of your way, Jack. Besides, I'm picking my car up from the garage tomorrow. One more night isn't going to kill me." 

The irony in that would come back to haunt him later, but for now, he reluctantly allowed her to brush off his concern. 

"Be careful." 

She nodded and stared at him for a moment, wanting to kiss him or hug him, but unsure of it just yet. So she settled for merely caressing his icy cheek with her own equally chilly hand. 

"Bye Jack." 

Samantha waved and left, eager to escape the frigid air in any way possible. 

Jack watched her descend the stairs and assured himself once more that she would be fine and drove away, doubt creeping at the edges of his brain. 

***************

Disturbing as it was, he kept telling himself that she was probably in the shower and as such, unable to hear the phone. 

He had to believe that or the endless drive to her apartment would succeed in driving him mad. 

Hurrying up the flight of stairs, he bounded to her door and banged incessantly. No answer and the fear came back full force. He whipped out the spare key she had given him, intending to use it only as a last resort. 

And then, as he expected, Jack Malone was greeted with the one thing he prayed he wouldn't: silence. Complete and utter silence. Sam, he knew, was a noisy person in the morning. She'd told him many a time of the fast, energetic rock music she liked to play as a booster, in addition to the coffee she'd be brewing and the shower she'd be running, the toast she'd be heating. 

No toast had popped, coffee wasn't brewing, no water was running, and the stereo was closed up. 

Then, what he noticed, which disturbed him even more, was that her coat and her purse, characteristically hung over the back of her couch, were nowhere to be seen. 

"Sam!" 

Her bed was made and that did it for him. Today was Friday and she never made her bed on Fridays, which meant, of course, that she hadn't slept in it since Wednesday night. 

He had done this, he knew, he had gone through this a thousand times, but suddenly it seemed his mind was drawing a blank. It was one thing when someone else went missing, but it was another thing entirely when Samantha Spade suddenly disappeared. 

It had been 11:00 last night when they'd left the office. It was safe to assume she'd never made it home. He glanced at her bedroom clock. 7:30 a.m. 

So she had been missing 8 1/2 hours now. 

Jack rushed out of the apartment and locked the door behind him, hurrying as fast as he could to the office. 

"Jack? What's wrong?" 

Ignoring Martin, Jack breezed right into his office and opened the frame which preciously held Sam's picture from their Thanksgiving dinner. He quickly cut out the smiling Danny whose arm was casually draped around her and walked deliberately towards the white board, shaking as he pinned up the photo he hoped in a million years he'd never have to see up there. 

The marker shook in his hand and he dropped the cap as he wrote her name. 

Martin sunk into a nearby seat, suddenly aware of just why he had been blown off. 

Allowing himself one last shred of hope, Jack checked his phone for any messages. Had she been delayed somehow, he knew she would've contacted him. 

The weight of the situation hit him full force then and he closed his eyes against the pain. 

Samantha Spade was missing. 

***************   
TBC.... 


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

**Notes:** Thanks my readers, first and foremost, because without you, well, writing wouldn't be as fun. And a big thanks to Anthony LaPaglia and Poppy Montgomery because they bring a depth to these characters that just astounds me with every episode. 

Well...enjoy! 

***************

She breathed a life into his office that he'd rarely appreciated. His coffee had gone cold and he stirred the stale liquid with a heavy hand, dragging the spoon back and forth. 

Rain pelted the world outside and each minute passing by served to remind him of his failure to find her. 

A day; a day had gone by and he'd aged a lifetime. He found himself forgetting that silly tune she'd hum when she was bored; a tune from some long forgotten melody that held a secret meaning for her. 

He was starting to forget the smell of her shampoo as she bent down to change the radio station; the way she'd quote Pacino movies with Danny while they ate those hot dogs from across the street. 

He missed how on certain days, and at just the right moment, he could look up and catch her gaze flicker on him; then her eyes would spark with this recognition like she'd just seen an old love for the first time in years. The spark would stretch to her cheeks and her lips would curve into a grin and he'd know, for a split second, that she loved him. 

She had that rumpled, fatigued look that came with hard work and years of disappointment. 

Silence was a reminder of her absence; the usual clatter of her cheap heels on the floor no longer invaded the confines of a room where the sounds of her whispers, her laughter, her hope clung to the walls, taunting him. 

Time, it seemed, was working against him. Time was what they relied on around here and they never seemed to have enough, not when it mattered; not when they needed it most. 

Jack brought a spoonful of the black liquid to his mouth and silently cursed as a few drops fell onto tickets splayed on his desk. They were supposed to eat out tonight at that tiny diner that had Sam's favorite blend of salad, breadsticks, and manicotti. He planned on surprising her and taking her to see Hamlet, her favorite play. 

He quickly grabbed a napkin and tried wiping the coffee off the ticket. He'd written her name on it in fresh ink and by now, the only letter visible was a simple, faded, 's'. 

He ran a shaky hand through his hair and walked away from his tomb. Memories were invading him every where he went. 

Their conference table was covered with receipts, newspaper clippings, notes from Sam's agenda book. Her fingerprints were everywhere, in every corner of every place that his weary body carried him. 

Jack ran his hand over the scattered pieces of Samantha Spade's life. 

Danny shuffled in, silently, unnoticed, tossing his jacket over the nearest chair. He flipped open his tablet where he'd scribbled bits and pieces of information. None of it helped, none of it was of any use whatsoever, and yet he wrote down everything: where she had shopped last weekend, the movie she had rented the previous night, what she had for dinner, what she had been wearing when she stepped on the subway. 

Danny tossed the tablet onto the conference table an ran a hand over his head, watching his boss. 

Jack was thinking about her, of course, because his face would change. It was so subtle, you would miss it if you looked away, even for a brief second. But there was a change. 

Each mark, each line, each wrinkle that marred his skin would loosen and ease away as her face slowly drifted into his perception. 

Jack walked up to the white board, staring at it, reading it, unraveling it. Maybe he could find something there that nobody else had thought of. 

Jack traced the photo of Samantha, his hand floating over it, afraid of it, aching for it. 

"Did we get a hold of surveillance tapes from the subway yet?" 

Jack's gruff voice floated across the room and Danny walked towards him. 

"Martin's working on it. Vivian's talking to the security guards. So far, we've got nothing." 

Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced around the table. 

"What are we doing, Danny? What are we missing?" 

Truth be told, Danny had gone over and over everything in his mind. Every lead led to nothing, every turn brought them to a dead end. 

He stood in front of Jack and did the only thing he could think for now: he lied. 

"We're going to find her, Jack." 

"I know." 

And really, he didn't, but he allowed himself the illusion of hope because tonight, he didn't want nightmares. 

With a friendly pat on the shoulder, Danny walked away. 

*************** 

TBC... 


	3. Part 3

**Notes:** Well, sorry for the delay. Sometimes the muse just isn't there. Thankfully, I'm back into the swing. I also hope this is a good chapter, you never can tell when you're the writer. I want to say a big thank you to all my reviewers so far, I really appreciate the feedback. And a big *wave* to the Maple St. Crew. Well, enjoy! 

**********

He had his memories of her safely tucked away in that little part of his heart where even the strongest of griefs and trials couldn't penetrate the layer of hope and love he'd put into building this bridge between himself and her. 

Her hair clip lay by the sink where she'd carelessly discarded it that night which seemed decades ago. 

It had been a cold, rainy night--and her skin was equally icy as it caressed a pattern on his cheek, toying with his hair, leaving sweet honey and strawberry kisses on his lips, smiling against him as their breaths met in time. 

His warm hand had lingered on her blouse and he'd begun to gently unbutton it, embracing her cold skin against him as they danced to his bed. He watched her sleep in the moonlight, her hair falling over her eyes as she looked back at him with sad, questioning eyes. 

_"Jack?"_

He shut his eyes against the whisper. He could hear her in the room, as though she were with him, and the memory became so real he wanted it to end. 

_"Do you love me?"_

He hadn't answered her then and that was another mistake he tucked away in the other part of his heart where his sins lingered in his blood, building scars that never faded with time and continuously reminded him of his failures. 

He dwelled on another memory then, as his hand fluttered over her casefile where her face smiled back at him, taunting him, begging him to find her. 

The first time he saw her, she'd been haggard and frustrated and nervous, shaking with excitement and anxiety, brushing snowflakes off her coat as she came in from the cold. Her cheeks were rosy and cold, and her bare hands were white and frozen as she shook his hand. 

She had these layers and depths that he picked up on from the start as she rambled on about her, as of yet, uneventful life; her need to help in any way she could. She had been young and part of him would always associate her face with that beaming, idealistic smile and innocent eyes that looked up at him with all the ambition and hope in the world, daring him to beat her down. 

They finished and she'd stood up, shaking his hand again and smiling, completely unaware that from the moment she'd entered his office, Samantha Spade had saved him. 

From what, he wouldn't know right away. In fact, that little revelation had only come to him just now in retrospect, as he sat in his eerily quiet apartment, trying to separate his past from his present. His nostalgia was sending him to places he didn't want to go, didn't want to dwell on, simply because it hurt. 

It always hurt. 

And right now, his reality was wrapped up in her, in Samantha; in memories and faded images, mistakes, whispers, laughter, tears. Everything that was Samantha became him and he needed her, needed to feel her and be with her in every way possible. 

He took her picture from the file, his sight blurry from the tears he didn't bother to wipe away. 

She'd loved him. She'd loved him with every smile she faked, lie she told, tear she hid, and heart she broke. She'd loved him through everything up until the night she said goodbye, and his heart ached for her in a way he'd never thought possible. 

And he--well, he was completely in love with her, that much he knew. If he had nothing else, if he never found her, that was the one thing he knew for certain he'd always have. 

Jack downed the last of his amaretto and smiled sadly at Sam's picture. 

"I'll bring you back, Sam. I promise." 

********** 

Danny paced around the room, taunting the man who cowered in front of him. 

"Come on, Jeff, I know you saw her get off that subway. We have surveillance tapes. You were the only one to get off with her. You saw her get knocked down, you saw that man drag her away." 

Danny's temper was rising as he fought against the images that came to mind. He'd watched the tapes over and over, dissecting each frame and motion, willing her to come back. 

"Yet you did nothing. Didn't want to get your business suit dirtied up, hmm? Just another poor person in the wrong place at the wrong time in a little subway station in New York. Just another person, right Jeff? You didn't know her, barely saw her face, didn't know her name. Why get yourself hurt too?" 

The man squirmed under the interrogation. Danny had dealt with tougher, more stubborn witnesses before. This one would be easy to break. He sat on the table, leaning down to get into his face. 

"Well you know what? Her name is Samantha Spade." 

Danny pulled out the picture of her and held it in front of the man. 

"This is what she looks like. And if you could've stopped her from getting taken, getting hurt...if she'd dead, no power on Heaven or Hell can stop me or Martin or Vivian...or Jack from bringing you down," Danny spoke, carefully choosing his words and the tone he used to get his point across. 

The man finally broke, waving his hands nervously, as he spoke with an unmasked fear in his voice, "All-all right, I saw her. I-I saw her walk over to her street and-and this guy came behind her and knocked her out with this pipe. I didn't see what happened after that, I swear. I was so scared, I just ran. I'm sorry, I-I was going to call the police-" 

"Going to? Heh, you're a real hero, aren't you? And you didn't see his face?" 

"No, he had a mask on and it was so dark I-" 

"All right, that's it for now. I don't want to hear your sob story." 

Danny got up and left the room, meeting Jack in the hallway, whose face held an equally unmasked anger. 

"I don't think we're going to get much more out of him. Our next best bet is to scrape the place she was knocked down for fingerprints." 

Jack stood for a moment, thinking about what had been said and then spoke in a far-off, lost voice, "She's been missing for 40 hours now, Danny." 

There was a fear they all felt at the possibility they might never find her, or at least, not in time, but Danny patted Jack's shoulder again for the second time in the last two days and walked away. 

This time, he had nothing to say; no words of encouragement to offer because he, frankly, he wasn't sure he would believe them himself. 

**********

TBC....uh, do you like? What did you think? Let me know. 


	4. Part 4

**Notes:** Well, first...a big thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, you all just rock! Second, I'm going to be delving into Jack's past a little bit here on my own accord. I'm taking some liberties...lol. Also, there is one foul word in the midst of this chapter, but I felt the need to use it to tie in with the moment. Also, thanks Dev for giving me some awesome feedback before I posted this! Well, enjoy! 

**********

**48 hours missing**

The chilly wind blew against him, freezing his breath in the darkened subway station. The insubstantial bulbs cast an eerie glow over the scene before him. 

A swirl of emotions engulfed him as he kneeled over the small pool of dried blood that he knew, instinctively, was Sam's. Danny's flashlight hovered over the red substance and he too kneeled over it. 

"We're lifting prints everywhere, Jack. There's going to be thousands of them." 

With one hand still clutching the flashlight, Danny ran his other hand over his eyes in frustration. The odds of making any sense of the prints they lifted were against them. He scanned the blood, something catching his eye. Leaning closer, he picked up what he only hoped was a hair, running it between his gloved fingers. A smile, the first in days, came to his face, and he stood, suddenly hopeful. 

"Jack, this is a definite strand of hair and it most certainly doesn't belong to Sam." 

Jack stood too, examining the dark fiber. He nodded to Danny, sealing a slight hope between them, and lingered over the scene of the crime as Danny walked away to bag the evidence. 

He was being assaulted with images of her; walking home, completely oblivious, slightly tired. Her head would've been down because she never faced the world as she moved in the darkness. Some strands of hair would've slipped out of her ponytail, falling gracefully over her eyes as she walked with her bare hands stuffed in her coat pockets, sheltered from the wind that would've been blowing against her weary figure. Her deliberate, confident steps would've clicked against the concrete, echoing off the walls of the nearly empty station. She would've been thinking, he supposed, about their dinner the next night; about what type of pasta she wanted, perhaps what type of wine would be best to complement the meal. 

She would've been thinking of him too, as she walked in the cold, smiling as his face drifted into her mind. And she would've been thinking of him when that dark figure came from behind her and hit her, and in that brief instant before the darkness took her, she would've thought of him and whispered his name and said a silent prayer that where ever he was, he would save her. 

Jack shut his eyes and reached for something he hadn't in years: his rosary. He'd been carrying it with him since this began. Maybe it was a mixture of guilt and regret and the tiny bit of hope fighting for the surface that there was, in fact, a God, whether Jack had considered Him or his faith in a while or not. He did still believe that someone was listening and now, more than ever, he needed to talk. 

He fumbled the coarse beads between his fingers and whispered a clumsy prayer that faded into the night, looking towards the stars that twinkled brightly against the canvas of black sky; little diamonds that showed you the way. 

He pulled a picture of her from his pocket again. It was old and worn, slightly wrinkled and stained; but she was beautiful and alive and everything he needed her to be in that tiny picture that would forever hold her. 

**********

"Forensics got a match on the hair strand to a Christopher Moore, age 31. He's got some minor felonies in his background: petty thefts, drug possession. We've got an address and phone number." 

Danny slid the info to Jack, whose glasses rested carelessly on the tip of his nose. Martin and Vivian shared a glance, wondering whether it was enough to believe that there was a lead, finally. 

Jack flipped through the report, his eyes zeroing in on the face of the man who had taken away the last good thing left in his life. 

"All right, Danny, you're coming with me, we're going to talk to this Mr. Moore. Viv, I want you and Martin to search his apartment first, be very thorough. Then talk to the landlord and anyone else in the building you can get a hold of--see if they noticed anything unusual." 

The team nodded, collectively standing up to face the world as they fought to bring back the missing link to their lives. 

**********

"I told ya, I don't know anything!" Christopher Moore shouted for the second time in less than an hour. His hands shook, a gesture not unnoticed by Jack who circled the suspect like a shark taunting its prey. Though clearly a bit nervous, the suspect had a look in his eyes that sent a chill down Jack's spine. 

He bent over Christopher, whispering exaggerated truths in his ear. 

"This young, pretty girl, walking home all by herself. She's looking vulnerable and easy, just what you want. So you sneak up behind her, you hit her, you take her away. What did you do next, Chris, huh? Did you rape her? Did you tie her down and rape her? So easy, wasn't it? You were the big man, you had complete power over her. If she screamed, you slapped her around a little, maybe threatened her. But she hated you, she fought you, didn't she?" 

Chris looked down for a minute, a smirk crossing his features, and an eerie confidence suddenly filled his veins. 

"Yeah, she was a good fuck." 

Danny, who had been standing outside, rushed in as this comment fled the suspect's mouth. Jack's temper flared and he pushed over a chair, ready to attack the man, only to be held back by Danny's strong arms. 

"Jack, Jack! Come on, outside." 

It wasn't an entirely rare thing for Jack to lose his temper. In fact, it was well known that though he had a sometimes gruff exterior, Jack was known to take many of his cases to heart. This one, obviously, more than any others. 

Danny couldn't blame him; had the roles been reversed, he figured he'd need to be the one escorted out. 

Jack paced, running a hand through his hair and over his mouth, fuming and thinking and running through scenarios. 

"What've we got on this guy's apartment?" Jack's voice suddenly boomed. 

Danny leaned against the glass, folding his arms across his chest. "Martin and Viv are still down there searching the apartment." 

Danny paused and spoke again, forcefully, "Jack, why don't you head down there and join them? I'll finish questioning this bastard, see if he can give us anything useful. I'll make him talk eventually." 

Jack nodded and watched as Danny entered the tiny room, circling the suspect much as he had done. 

He walked through the hallway into the conference room and answered his suddenly ringing cell phone. Vivian's haggard voice came through on the other line. 

"Jack, I just called the garage where Sam had her car. They need someone to go and pick it up. You free to head down there?" 

"Sure, Viv. How's it going at the apartment, did you find anything?" 

Sighing loudly, she replied, "Yeah, actually. But nothing I want to find, Jack; blood, some of Sam's ripped clothes and hair. But no sign of Sam anywhere." 

"All right. Keep looking for anything that might indicate this wasn't random." 

"What? You think this was planned?" 

"I'm not sure yet, it's just a hunch right now. Just keep looking." 

"You got it. I'll be in touch." 

Jack closed the phone, depositing it in his pocket and ran a hand over his eyes. Nothing was making sense. There could be a multitude of people who may have wanted to take Sam. The possibilities were endless and the leads were few and far between. Buttoning his coat, he headed outside to his car, desperately hoping that there would be some clues. 

**********

He'd never considered before just how closely one human being could be tied to another. It seemed a subtle, faint link had weaved its way through their hearts, binding them with each touch they shared and glance they stole at each other when no one was looking. 

It was as though, anymore, she had become part of him and now this disturbing void hung over him like a curse. Maybe this was fate's cruel joke. He'd done one bad thing, and another, and another, until no amount of Hail Mary's could save his soul from a purgatory he'd erected around his heart. 

Jack ran his hand over the steering wheel, thinking of her as he usually did. Funny, he'd never realized until now, but as he thought about it, she wore little, if any perfume. Rather, she had this signature scent all her own; one of toil and sweat and hard work. Of tears and grief and laughter and too many years alone. 

She stood inside her own prison, he supposed, and pushed herself day after day, stumbling against walls that weren't there and reaching for people who never reached back. Then he'd come and pulled her in and they drifted together in this life that never ceased to batter and bruise them. 

She had this look in her eyes that faded and rose with the sun. Beneath the stormy seas that swirled in her shining orbs, there was a pain that he'd never understood and tried desperately to ease. But she also had a fire of laughter that danced in the seas and a love for him that he'd never fully grasped until now. It was so beautiful and pure and he couldn't stop himself now from reaching out blindly to a world that had hurt him for the last time. Only, she wasn't there. 

Perhaps she never would be. 

_Jack?_

He sighed and spoke with a world weary whisper, "Oh God, Sam. Where are you?" 

There was always silence and he'd come to know it. But he would never get used to it, never in a million years. 

He could live a thousand lifetimes and that one single minute in the myriad of years and months and days that faded into a lifetime, that one brief second without her, would be enough to make his eternity wholly and utterly broken and damaged and incomplete in the broadest sense. 

When he looked over at the vacant passenger seat, her ghost smiled at him. A goodbye he knew he might never have. He reached out again to touch the mirage. Her lips were cold and delicate and faded into the air. She haunted his sleep and his reality and merged the two into a kind of twilight he was being slowly sucked into. 

Leaning over, he opened the glove compartment and was surprised to see a photo slip out. At first glance, it was an old polaroid. Curious, he picked it up. What he saw staring back at him from the grainy depths of a faded image was Samantha, bound and gagged, facing the camera with a fear he'd never seen and never wanted to again. 

On the bottom, in the little white space, a few hasty words were scrawled messily in red ink, slamming him into a further spiral as his world spun out of control. 

_CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, JACK_

His hands began to shake as he clasped the picture. Suddenly, the situation was much more complicated. 

**********

TBC...good chapter? 


	5. Part 5

**Notes:** Okay, it's been a little while, but here's the next part. I'm trying to organize my thoughts into some semblance of normalcy. After FO, it's hard to form coherent sentences, let alone write the next part to my story. So, I've done my best and I can only hope I don't disappoint! 

********** 

**50 hours missing**

Jack's shaky fingers clutched the polaroid in the half-light of approaching dusk, willing a coherent thought to pass through the hazy dream that had engulfed him since he'd first laid eyes upon her. His perception was muted and fuzzy and the world seemed to carry on upon its own volition, separate from this reality. 

The panic in her eyes brought him back and he forced his fingers around the phone which lay precariously clinging to the withering fibers of his overcoat. 

He punched a number, thanking God for speed dial, and waited for Vivian to answer. 

"Hello?" 

His voice came as a harsh whisper as he struggled to speak with a confidence he was greatly lacking. 

"Viv, it's me. You need to come down here. I was checking through Sam's car and a polaroid slipped out of her glove compartment. He's got her bound and gagged and-Viv, just get here fast." 

"On our way, Jack." 

His hand mechanically shut the link between reality and his distorted dream world where he tried to maintain an illusion of Sam being safe, unharmed, healthy and alive. With every glance at the polaroid that held between his fingers like glue, that dream cracked and crumbled and he tried desperately to piece together a new reality-with her-that made sense. A scenario that would lead her back to him. 

He was consistently failing at this and it scared him. 

Her eyes bore into his and she rose from the depths of her dark prison, pleading for the life slowly dwindling away with each second. 

The handwriting was rough and scratchy and familiar; hauntingly familiar. He studied it and read it and analyzed it until the letters blurred together. 

The air grew thick and heavy and he felt himself suffocating in the tiny car where Sam had, just days ago, laughed and talked and breathed and drove to work and home and him, always to him. To Jack. Where her life had stopped being easy and normal, started growing complicated and confused. But it had never stopped being worth it. He was her source and her savior and her simple solid foundation in the shaky crevices of a broken past, an uncertain tomorrow, a hopeful future. 

Fumbling towards the door, he reached over and pushed himself out, shutting the door behind him and closing his eyes in frustration. His hair was messy and unkempt, his overcoat hung loosely over his strong shoulders, and his eyes were filled with a fierce fire to keep up the fight. 

The sound of slamming car doors brought him back and he moved to join Vivian and Martin. 

"What's wrong, Jack?" 

He displayed the polaroid before his teammates, their shocked and sad eyes serving only as a reminder of the precious little time slipping through his fingers. 

Martin's uneven voice spoke above the silence, "I'm gonna go talk to the mechanic, see if he saw anything." 

Vivian nodded, studying Jack, searching for a clue. She spoke softly to her friend, "Jack, do you have any idea who might've done this?" 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know. There's so many possible leads, I can't think. I need to get back to the office, look through my old cases. The handwriting-it looks familiar, but I can't place it." 

His eyes inevitably floated back to the polaroid, viciously examining the markings on the wall behind her, the position of her bound hands, the bruises marring her pale skin, desperate in his search to find something, anything worthwhile in the inadequate image. 

Vivian paused for a moment, emotions flooding her senses. "We'll get this guy, Jack. You know we will." 

And for the first time in the last two days, the unspoken fear lurking in the back of his mind finally came forward as a whispered, unsteady conviction. 

"No, I don't." 

**********

"Would you like to tell me how this picture got in the glove compartment?" 

Martin took the seat across from the mechanic whose hands looped nervously between each other, whose eyes darted around the room, avoiding the dark brown eyes boring into his. Danny leaned against the corner, his smirk serving to inform the man that his cover would be blown before he left the room. 

"I uh-I don't know. I was in the office, it was dark. I was working late-" 

"Working on what, exactly?" 

"You know, bills-making sure all the bills were paid. Just running over clients and all that." 

Martin turned his head to catch Danny's eye. His patience with the man was running out. Dropping his arms to his side, Danny walked forward, leaning into the man's face. 

When he spoke, his thoughts wandered back and forth, drifting between the human body in front of him and the one so often with them, her presence lingered in the confining room. 

"Come on, Eddie. You saw someone break into her car last night. How much did he pay you to keep your mouth shut, huh? How much?" 

Eddie's eyes continued their dance around the room, his fear building, his resolve slipping. 

Martin shot up from his chair, slammed his hand on the table, and shouted, "Answer the damn question!" 

Jumping in his seat, Eddie's hands slipped from the wooden table, falling into his lap, slippery with sweat. 

"All-all right, I-I saw this guy. He uh, he was wearing this ski mask, you know? I didn't want any trouble. He paid me some money, told me if anyone asked, I never saw him. I-I didn't even know what he did, I just saw him slip something in her car and leave." 

Danny scoffed, keeping his rising anger in check. "So, this guy breaks into a car you're responsible for, slips something into the glove compartment, and pays you to keep quiet." 

He leaned in again, effectively making Eddie cower. "What kind of business are you running, Eddie?" 

Eddie's head lowered, his hands still fidgeting in his lap, his thoughts wandering between the outside world and the lonely confines of a dark prison cell. 

Danny stood up, preparing to end the interrogation as he spoke to Martin quietly, both agreeing little more could be done as of now. 

With a courage that surprised him, Eddie spoke in a whisper, "I-I uh, I remember her. I don't know why, I mean, she dropped her car off a week ago, and hell, a client's a client, you know? They have a problem, I fix it, they pay me, they move on. But she uh, I don't know. She just seemed...different. Decent. I guess I noticed it because it's not something I see much anymore. I hope you find her." 

Martin exchanged a look with Danny before replying, "You'll want to hold onto that then, because if she doesn't come back, that's the last decent human you'll be seeing for a long time. Your silence might've cost us precious time in this investigation." 

Danny retreated from the room, leaving the door open for Martin who threw one last comment to Eddie before leaving. 

"I hear human decency is in short supply in prison, Eddie." 

The threat was enough and Eddie didn't look up as another agent came to escort him away. 

"So did you get anything out of him?" 

Martin ran a hand through his messy hair, sighing in frustration. 

"He saw the guy put the picture in there, the guy paid him to keep quiet, and that's all she wrote. We've got forensics sweeping every inch right now, Jack." 

"All right, keep me updated. I've got some old cases to flip through." 

"You think this might be someone holding a grudge?" 

This time, it was Jack's turn to rake his disheveled hair. "Yeah. I uh, I just don't know who yet." 

Martin nodded and hesitated a second before walking away. 

It was true, of course. Part of it anyway. Jack did suspect it was someone with a grudge. What he didn't tell Martin was he knew, more than he wanted to, just who would've done this. 

**********

There were layers to everything, he supposed. 

Beneath the walls people cocooned themselves in, beneath the tiny specks of dirt they picked up along the way as life threw hardship after hardship upon them. 

Beneath all of that, there was a beauty and a life to every person that he'd vowed to always treasure; to always look for and hold onto and protect against all odds. 

There were layers to Samantha Spade. So many that he wondered some days if he really knew her. But then she'd smile at him and tease him and those flyaway strands of hair would brush against his bare chest at night when they made love and he would know, without a doubt, that he knew her better than he knew himself. 

He knew things about her. 

She liked the snow but hated winter. She liked Humphrey Bogart, but hated Casablanca. Because there wasn't a happy ending, because it didn't end the way it was supposed to end, the way it's always supposed to end. 

The guys loves the girl, the girl loves the guy, the guy gets the girl, and that is the end of the story. 

But Sam, for her hatred of simple, sappy movies, always secretly wished for the predictable happy ending. 

_"Life doesn't have enough happy endings, Jack. I like to pretend they're possible."_

The quiet memory faded again and he was slammed, once again, back into the present, staring down an old casefile that he prayed he'd never see again. 

He had been young, foolish, perhaps a little too idealistic, too cocky. 

His mistakes, he thought, as his hand flipped through the papers, were coming back to haunt him. 

********** 

TBC... 


	6. Part 6

**Notes:** I'm taking liberties with Jack's past for the purpose of my story. I have no idea what division he first worked in when he joined the Bureau, but for my story, this fits. Nothing real gruesome in this chapter, a couple foul words. I'm figuring on there being about three or four more chapters left so we're down to the wire. Enjoy! 

* 

**52 hours missing**

He hated what this was doing to him. 

She was gone and each thread of life holding him together was slowly unraveling as the clock ticked off each hour. 

He hated that alcohol made it easier to be alone. 

He hated that being alone suddenly made life empty. 

He hated being alone. 

"Talk to me, Jack." 

One more sip. The amber liquid trickled down his throat, wrapping around his brain, releasing his inhibitions. He had secrets; too many secrets. 

"It's complicated, Viv." 

Vivian looped her hands together, leaning forward so Jack's fuzzy vision could meet her eyes in the dim room. It was late, dark, cold outside; the empty bar smelled of gin and loneliness; an old song played softly in the background and Jack Malone sipped the last bit of amaretto from his shot glass, shutting his eyes as it clanked against the cheap wood. 

"Well, I'm not going anywhere, Jack. So you can sit here and drink all night, but until you tell me what's got you so disturbed, I'm not moving from this spot." 

It was enough to make him smile just a bit. He didn't expect any less. 

His tie was gone, his suit a day old, his hair hadn't been brushed, and his face was slightly rough with the beginnings of a beard he hadn't yet bothered to shave. He would shave tonight because if they found Sam tomorrow, she'd be on his case. 

No. _When_ they found Sam tomorrow. 

When. 

He had to start thinking in terms of truths and absolutes. Because possibilities and unknowns were chewing away the thread of sanity he was trying desperately to hold onto. 

"When I first joined the Bureau, I-uh, I worked the violent crimes division." 

Vivian raised her eyebrow in curiosity. She'd never asked Jack about his past, how he got started. Pulling off her coat, she leaned back, folding her arms over her chest, and waited as he spoke across the silence. 

"I was young, you know. Thought I could change the world. Thought I could save it." A bitter laugh escaped his lips. 

There was a drop of amaretto left and he welcomed its sting on his tongue. 

"A couple months in, I got this case. A serial killer. He targeted these young women, in their mid-to-late twenties. Typically blonde-haired. He liked to leave these polaroids at the scene of his crime: the women alive, bound, scared. Then dead. He liked to keep them alive for a few days, a week maybe, toy with them. Toy with me. It was a damn cat-and-mouse game to him." 

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, sighing, wishing the memories away. 

"His last victim-she uh, she'd been missing a week and we knew we were cutting it close. We finally found him, and she was still alive, thank God, but uh, we didn't have enough hard evidence to put him away." 

He signalled to the bartender and his shot glass was suddenly on fire again, the warm release swirling around the cold glass. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, downing the amaretto in one sip. 

"I was up all night, looking at the evidence, trying to find something solid that would fry the sonofabitch for good. But, most of it was circumstantial. He was smart, real smart. Real good. But I knew; I knew he had done it. So I studied it and studied it, trying to find anything to tie him to the case." 

He sighed again, rubbing his eyes in the darkness. 

"So I-I planted some evidence. I knew what I had to do. I knew he was the guy and I knew, based on the little evidence we had, he'd do little, if any time. So that was that. He was sentenced for life." 

Jack hesitatated to meet Vivian's eyes for a second, afraid of what he'd see there; disbelief, disgust, disappointment. Anything that would indicate she had lost that respect for him he so greatly valued. But when he did finally raise his weary head to meet her eyes, what he saw there was simply friendship. And a slight twinge of fear at where this was headed. 

"Jack, are you trying to say-" 

He leaned forward, slumping against the wood. "A year ago, they uh, they reopened his case. That's why I was at court that one time -- I didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want anyone to know about my mistake. They found out I had tampered with the evidence, so he was released on parole, awaiting a new trial. The other one was thrown out, a mistrial. So he's been out there now, watching." 

Vivian suddenly saw with clarity why Jack had been particularly on edge, slightly jumpy, worried, nervous. 

"But Jack, that's not your problem anymore. Even if he does something, it's not your jurisdiction. You did everything you could to put him away. You did your part. It's never easy to sleep at night knowing guys like him are walking the streets, but it happens everyday." 

"But this was my mistake, my failure. He got parole because I tampered with the evidence. So it is is my problem, Viv." 

He cradled his face then, his emotions overwhelming him. 

"And that polaroid of Samantha -- that's got his signature written all over it. This is his game, Viv. He must've been watching me, finding out how he could get to me. And now he's got her." 

Vivian closed her eyes briefly, a sudden fear rising up from the pit of her stomach. This was suddenly more complicated then even she could've predicted. 

"I won't be sleeping easy for a long time." 

* 

It was dark and cold, the wind howled outside, and her eyes could make out only the slight silhouette of his figure as it moved in the darkness. She wanted to see him, to know where he was at all times. But this was his game. He spoke to her, taunted her, played with her mind. 

He talked about Jack regularly and, though she was the one actually trapped in here, her mind wandered to him, worry creeping into her heart. 

"It's been two days, Samantha. I think he's found the picture by now. I would've loved to see his face. Do you think he misses you much? Hmmm...I bet he fairly went mad when he saw you. A Kodak moment, wouldn't you say?" 

His breath moved on her skin. He was close, so very close. 

Too close. 

She could feel his movement as he bent closer, his breath now inches from her face. 

"Do you think he's going to kill me, Samantha?" 

She wanted to scream at him, confirm to him that yes, Jack would kill him, and yes, he did miss her. And that at this very moment she knew, beyond a doubt, that he was looking for her, frantically, that Jack and Vivian and Martin and Danny -- the people in her life, the people that mattered -- were searching for her. It was a thought that brought her comfort, that brought a bit of warmth into the chill room. Made her realize that were she not to make it out of here alive, at least she knew they had tried. 

He spoke again, calmly, softly. 

"I'm going to kill you, Samantha. But not now." 

He ran his callused fingers through her hair and over her skin, sending goosebumps down her arm. 

"Soon." 

* 

Danny leaned back in his chair, analyzing the pictures of the crime scenes. 

Jack had told him, mere hours ago, of the probable suspect, of what he had done. Of what this man was capable of doing. 

The possibility of Samantha being out there, in the hands of this serial killer no less, was extremely disturbing. Add to that the scant evidence they had, the task before them seemed hopeless. 

Hope. 

What they always wanted, always needed. 

And never seemed to have enough of. 

Martin's brisk clatter drew his attention and he glanced up from the scattered files to meet his gaze, awaiting news of anything. 

"No prints. This guy's good, obviously." 

Martin joined Danny at the conference table, his eyes floating over to the pictures; pictures of the old cases, the women's mangled bodies, hardly seeming able to have once held life within them. It was frightening, and he looked away quickly. 

"This guy's got Sam?" 

Danny's hand shut the folder, fluttered to his eyes as he closed them, bidding the images his mind was conjuring to go away. 

"That's what Jack thinks." 

"Is that what you think?" 

Danny's eyes opened once more, looking at the closed folder, traveling to the whiteboard where Samantha's face smiled back at his. 

He spoke with a pain Martin felt equally in his heart, a fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. 

"Yeah, I do." 

"Jesus, this is insane. All right, all right, let's think about this. What about-what about Chris, the guy that took her? He's got to know something. I mean, come on, he probably took her to the bastard, right?" 

"I don't think we're gonna get much out of him, Martin." 

Any further discussion was interrupted as Vivian breezed in, sliding a folder across the table to Danny. 

A small smile graced her features. 

"We didn't get any prints from the car, the guy was real careful. But, even the smartest criminals slip up sometimes. We got a tiny hair fiber, pulled it from the passenger seat. It's who Jack thinks it is. We also got some DNA back from that guy, Christopher Moore's apartment. Sam's all over the place." 

Martin looked at the evidence briefly, then spoke, confused. 

"Okay, so we know who took her, we know it's this serial killer, Frank LaMarca. Say we go to his place -- he's smart, he's not gonna stick around, knowing we're coming for him. So we've got what? All we know now is that she's in the hands of a psychotic sociopath." 

"He probably won't be there. But at least we know who we're looking for. We have a time frame now, too. Jack knows this guy, knows how he operates. We've got a window of at least five days here. He may be smart, but he's going to get sloppy." 

Danny stood up, a sudden determination coursing through him. 

"Well, we got Sam's fingerprints all over Chris's apartment. You know what, I think I'm gonna have one more little talk with our friend Christopher." 

Vivian and Martin shared a look, unsure of Danny's intentions, but not doubting for a moment that he would get the information he wanted. 

* 

"You're going to tell me what I need to know, Chris." 

That smug look still played on his features, a cockiness dancing in his eyes. Danny resisted the urge to reach out and pummel the guy. He settled for sitting across from him, a safe distance, but close enough to get to him, to get across to him that he wouldn't leave this room until he said what Danny wanted to hear. 

"Now I know Frank paid you. He paid you to take her, didn't he? You hung around for a week, maybe, watching her, figuring out her routine. And then, you took her. You took her back to your place, you messed around with her, had a little fun, then handed her off like a piece of property." 

Chris smiled still, unwavering in his confidence. "You got nothin' to tie me to it." 

Danny smiled now, the revelation slipping easily from his lips. 

"You wanna bet? We've got DNA, we've got fingerprints, hair, should I go on? You were dumb, Chris. Real dumb. He's going down and you're going with him, unless you tell me where he is." 

A slight bit of fear broke through the mask, and his hands slipped from the table. 

"Come on, Chris. You're an accessory. A federal agent is missing and if he kills her, you're both gonna fry. So cut the shit and tell me where he is. You might get off with a life sentence." 

He waited a moment, watching the lines of carefully hardened ease and confidence slip from the man's face. 

"All-all right. Look, last I saw him was when I dropped the broad off, that night. He was at his old apartment, probably the address you got. But he's not gonna stick around there, no way. My guess is he went to one of his safehouses. He's got a few of them, so he could be anywhere. The only one I know about is his place up in Westchester. That's all I know, I swear." 

A hard line set on his lips and Danny merely nodded, his composure slowly slipping as he left the room, not bothering to look back as Chris was escorted away. Jack stood there, as he always did, watching. 

His face was hard and tense, his jaw set against his anger and pain. He blamed himself, he always did. His shoulders were heavy and weighted down from all the burdens and failures he carried along, never forgetting, never moving past. 

"Westchester." 

Danny moved towards him. 

"Yeah." 

Jack's hand rubbed a focus back into his bloodshot eyes, burning from lack of sleep. 

"Well, let's head out there then." 

He started to move and Danny's hand grabbed for Jack's arm, halting him briefly. 

"Jack, I saw the old casefiles, what this guy Frank does to his victims. We've only got a few days left, if we don't hurry--" 

Jack's hand shot up, his mind unable to think about, to process the end of that thought. 

"Don't even think it, Danny. Not yet. Not now." 

He moved away from Danny, intent on one thing now. 

"Not ever." 

* 

TBC... 


	7. Part 7

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for sticking with me. I love you guys! Your support and feedback is just absolutely wonderful and I'm sincerely grateful. Everyone at Maple Street just rocks beyond words and I can only hope I deliver with this last and final chapter. Yeah, I was going to make it nine or ten chapters long, but I figured I might as well just wrap it all up once and for all. Well, it's been a great ride and again, thanks to everyone who's been reading and giving feedback and sticking with it. This last chapter is dedicated to all my faithful readers. Enjoy! 

* 

**67 hours missing**

She could hear his footsteps outside the room, the shadows playing a pattern back and forth through the thin light streaming under the crack of the door. 

She couldn't see the blood, she could only feel it. It was hard and dry in some places, already old and becoming a permanent fixture not only on her body, but in her mind and her soul. Her bound hands ran down her face, the sticky, cold, fresh blood oozing between her fingers and tasting bitter as it ran in her mouth. 

The pain came in waves and bursts at various intervals. She couldn't tell night from day and all the hours and minutes seemed to merge together, a canvas of one existing time. She tried to remember people and faces and sounds that seemed so far away now. 

Jack would come, she knew. He was nothing if not devoted. Devoted to his work, to her. 

He would come. 

Just not soon enough. 

* 

"I met her when she first came to New York." 

Danny's voice broke above the silence, above the loud rain as it pelted the windshield. He didn't know what to think, his thoughts kept drifting to Samantha, to her beaten, bloody face. He kept thinking about her, alone with that man whose humanity had left him long ago, whose actions confirmed that humans were nothing more than animals to him and Samantha was at the mercy of his demented inner workings. 

He didn't know what to say to Jack, whose face betrayed nothing less than a fear he wouldn't find her, that he'd fail her. He didn't know what to say because comfort seemed inadequate and dishonest. He couldn't promise a safe return he himself had trouble believing. 

So he decided to simply talk about her. About the Samantha he'd known since she'd been an unsure young rookie, so far from home, slightly nervous about being in this big city she was grasping to comprehend. 

"Before she joined our unit, I mean. She was thinking about joining up with the violent crimes unit." 

Jack's attention was caught and he drew his gaze away from the window. 

"And you talked her into joining Missing Persons?" 

Danny's mouth lifted into a cocky smile. 

"I like to pretend I had a hand in it, yes. I was her first friend. She's the only person I know who can quote _Serpico_, aside from me. And you want to know something else? She was afraid of you at first." 

Jack's eyebrows went up in curiosity. 

"Well, you can be intimidating. She wanted to impress you so much, make you proud. I think she did that." 

"She did more than that." 

He turned his gaze back to the window, tracing the drops of rain with his lonely eyes. 

Danny uttered one last regretful sentence before they passed once more into an uneasy silence. 

"I miss her." 

* 

He could feel her. She was so tangible and real to him that he wanted to wrap her in his grasp and never let go. He could feel her fear and her anxiety, her basic need to simply get out of here, escape. He could feel her hopelessness and it scared him. 

There were pieces of her clinging to the walls and filling in those little holes in his heart that had started forming since the moment she'd disappeared. 

Danny's hand hovered alertly over his gun, awaiting a noise, a movement, anything to indicate he'd need to use it, to fire, to dispel the deadly little object lying in wait in the dark barrel of his weapon. His feet shuffled along the wooden floorboards, his flashlight shooting thin beams across the room. His eyes settled on magazines and cigarette butts, an old television set. He silently thanked the omnipotent being in the sky above that he hadn't spoken to in ages as his hand ran across the search warrant in his pocket. 

They could search this place up and down and he only hoped something worthwhile could be found. 

Jack's clumsy hands finally rested on a tiny lamp and he switched it on, engulfing the room with an insubstantial light. 

"Look for uh, anything...pictures, letters." 

His hand stopped its rhythm on the wall. 

"Blood." 

Danny's head shot up briefly and he looked away again, intent on obtaining evidence that would find her, save her, take her away from the pit of hell she was thrust into. 

Jack watched as Danny moved into the next room -- bedroom, most likely -- and moved further into the living room. 

His eyes caught sight of something and he bent down, unsurely, hesitantly; his brain already foreshadowing what he knew would lead him to visions he'd only seen in nightmares. And there they were. Photographs. Photographs of him, of her, of them together and apart and functioning quite well in an existence they'd foolishly come to believe as normal and safe. 

With every glance at these pictures, that normalcy he'd once believed in started to crack just as surely as the paint on the walls. 

There were old photos and new photos and photos that caused his hands to shake. Photos of her bound again, bloody and half-alive, bruises marring what little skin he could see in the half-light. He kept a grip on the photos as his uneasy hands moved against his face, his eyes, willing the images away. 

"Danny." 

It was broken almost, a fragile shell of a voice he'd once commanded in easier times, better times. A voice he'd suddenly forgotten. A voice that had left him just as abruptly as she had and left no indication of ever returning to full capacity. Of ever returning at all. 

Danny bent next to him, the beam of his flashlight wavering as he illuminated the pictures, focusing on the ones he'd been wishing all night he'd never see. 

"Well, we've got our evidence, Jack. Now we just need to find the sonofabitch." 

"If it was that easy, he wouldn't have left these here." 

Jack pocketed the pictures and stood with trepidation, his balance slightly off. 

Jack spun around, his hand resting on his head as he worked through the multitude of thoughts suddenly flowing through his weary mind. 

"Okay, we know he had her here for a little while. She might've...I don't know...maybe she was able to leave something behind here. She might've known where he was going to take her and she could've left a clue here that would indicate--" 

"That's a stretch, Jack." 

"It's all we've got, Danny." 

Danny conceded and the two began to search with a fury unmatched as of yet in their previous years together. There was a purpose to their movement, a passion in their steps. Her name loomed at the tips of their tongues, the base of their throats, the bottom of their hearts. They searched for a clue, a sign, a simple memento of her still-present life. 

It seemed to them that the situation was growing ever more futile and the clock was counting down an imaginary end. 

* 

He pored over the old casefiles, his eyes straining in the dim light as he sat against the seat, ignoring the pounding rain and Danny's still form as his concentration was rooted solely to the evidence and photographs laying before him. 

"Second victim was found 30 miles north of Westchester. Third victim was found in New Haven. His last victim was up in Everett, just north of Boston." 

Danny swiveled his head against the cool glass, facing Jack's silhouette. 

"There was a pattern there." 

Jack nodded. "Whenever we had a serial killer like this, obviously we looked into their past, what might motivate their urges, anything to indicate a reason for it. I had a hunch his mother did something to him, like he had a personal vendetta against women. His mother was tall, had blonde hair, just like his victims. He liked to be in control, liked to exert his force over his victims before he killed them. It wasn't just for pleasure. It's like he was trying to make up for what he couldn't do as a kid." 

"So each of the murders is a pattern moving up north--" 

"He grew up in Rochester, New Hampshire." 

Danny sat up straighter, his shoulders seemed to minutely raise, and a twinkle shone in his eyes. 

"That's where he was going, Jack." 

Jack looked up from the casefiles and met Danny's equally hopeful gaze. His hand brushed over the photo of Samantha laying almost purposefully atop the old folders. 

"He never got to finish it, Danny. So that's where he's got Samantha." 

The shrill ring of Jack's cellphone interrupted any further discussion. 

"Yeah." 

They spoke briefly until Jack covered the mouthpiece and turned to Danny. 

"Martin said he just spoke to a buddy of his up in Brideport -- said he pulled a guy over for speeding last night. He matches Frank's description." 

Danny nodded, listening as Jack instructed Martin and Vivian to meet them up in Rochester before hanging up. Jack's hands effortlessly dropped the phone into his coat pocket and his eyes shut tightly as he leaned against the sturdy seat. 

The phone rang once more, piercing the air as a tense fog hung inside the car. 

"Yeah." 

"Jack, how are you?" 

His free hand froze in midair as he halted his movement on the cold-induced fog smearing the window. It was a scratchy voice, painful on the ears as much as nails on a chalkboard. He hadn't heard it in years, hadn't thought in the darkest corners of his imagination that he ever would again. And yet that sound came forth from his closet of skeletons reminding him all too clearly of his past failures, of his future failure looming in front of him like an hourglass, the sands of time shifting and falling towards an inevitable end. 

"What do you want, Frank?" 

"Oh, I think you know, Jack. You always have. Now, tell me...do you miss her?" 

His fingers tensed against the phone, his ear reddening as he pressed the device closely against his skin. 

He held it together, faking a strength he could feel slowly slipping through his fingers like the sands of the hourglass; but his voice cracked a fraction of a degree as he spoke. 

"Why her?" 

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? Well, how about this: why not?" 

"How do I know she's even still alive?" 

The finality that mere thought provoked sent a chill up his spine, but he couldn't push it away. 

"The fact is, you don't. You'll just have to take my word for it, Jack. I'm sure you've figured out by now where I am, haven't you? The trick is...getting here on time. I'll be waiting." 

He waited for the click before flinging the phone on the ground before him, frustration eating at the little thread of sanity he was clinging to like a beacon of light. 

"Dammit!" His hand smacked the side door and ran through his messy hair. 

"Jack?" 

"It's a four hour drive, Danny." 

He wanted to ask, to know, to hear some semblance of reassurance or denial or anything that would allow him to hope they would find her or realize they wouldn't. But he knew better. It was dark in the car, dark outside, but he knew without seeing that Jack's face offered no room for argument. He turned the key in the ignition and sent a clumsy prayer to the sky above before backing out of the parking lot and driving towards what he hoped would be the end of this hellish journey. 

* 

**72 hours missing**

Martin hastily finished off the stale cup of coffee nesting precariously in his hand, tossing the empty styrofoam cup in the nearest trash can before climbing back into the car. 

"Well?" 

Vivian glanced over at his rain-soaked form as he slid against the seat. 

"No luck." 

"Now, what kind of car are we looking for?" 

"A green Camaro with New York plates. My buddy in Bridgeport matched a picture we have of Frank to the guy he pulled over last night driving that car." 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

"We checking with local police?" 

"Danny's on that right now. Jack's asking around town -- seeing if there's any type of abandoned building around here where he could've taken Samantha." 

"It's getting dark, Martin. We need to find her." 

Martin looked across at his colleague and a pain rose up in his stomach. Vivian's eyes mirrored the same pain and an unspoken grief hung between them. 

* 

Danny pulled his coat up over his head, his best attempt at a hood against the pouring rain. He scanned the crowd until his eyes rested upon Jack's form. The man was teetering on the edge. He seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact that it was raining, as he was standing completely exposed in it. 

He gestured Jack under a nearby store roof and puffed a breath of cold air as he spoke. 

"I talked to the locals -- one of them said he saw a green Camaro about an hour ago heading out past Portland Street down by the railroad." 

Jack glanced around for a moment. The sun was beginning to dip behind the evening clouds, the sky erupting into a watercolor of vibrant oranges and yellows and dim hues of red. Something told him this night would bring one of two outcomes, but his mind wouldn't allow him to dwell on either right now. 

"All right, let's get surveillance set up down there." 

* 

**74 hours missing**

His thoughts inevitably drifted to her. They always did when he had time to think. When he was alone. When voices and people stopped invading the spaces of his existence and he allowed himself a pause to simply see her, just her. Not old cases or unsolved cases or even cases that had happy endings. No; in the pauses that life seldom allowed him, he just thought of her. Of her face and her smile and her hair; her favorite movies and books and foods. He thought of everything that used to be her and was her and everything she fought to be, everything she wanted to be. 

He dwelled on this because in those little pauses, in the space and span of mere minutes, he sometimes thought of how he would be without her. 

Of how he would be when he suddenly forgot her face and her smile and her hair; suddenly forgot which movies she liked most, which songs made her happiest, and which foods she liked best after a long day at the office. 

He sometimes thought of that void she would leave if she were to one day just...disappear. 

He thought of her whenever he could because he was afraid the time would come when he might forget. 

Danny's breath framed the chilly windows as he raised the binoculars to his eyes, intensely focused on the building before him. 

His breath suddenly caught and he whispered to Jack, whose mind was suddenly thrust back to reality. 

"Jack, I think that's him." 

Jack sat up straight, raising the walkie-talkie to his mouth, and waited. He raised the night vision binoculars to his eyes and confirmed it, speaking to the other agents scattered in various locations as he whispered to the device in his hand. 

"Suspect's on the move. Everybody hold." 

They watched as Frank LaMarca retrieved what appeared to be a large knife from a nearby shed. They had tracked him down to this small cabin by the railroad and the two hours spent staking him out had dragged on until now. 

His figure retreated back into the cabin and Danny threw a questioning glance to Jack, a desperation barely suppresed beneath his pupils. 

He spoke to the walkie-talkie again. 

"Agent Taylor and I are moving in. All other agents hold back until I say." 

They both steeled themselves, quietly exited the car, and bent low as they moved in the darkness, guns drawn before them and held tight between icy fingers. The ground was slippery beneath their feet as they reached the entrance. 

Jack raised a free hand to bang on the door. 

"FBI!" 

He paused a moment before repeating his movement. 

"FBI! Open up!" 

He waited once more and glanced at Danny who nodded in agreement, before shooting the lock and moving in. The room was masked in darkness and they moved with ease as they were already adjusted to the dim light. Jack motioned for Danny to stop and he paused in the doorway, listening for footsteps. 

He could barely make out a figure in front of him. 

"Freeze!" 

The figure moved towards him with deliberate, agonizingly slow steps. Half of his face briefly came into light, his steps halting on the edge of the room. 

"Where is she, Frank?!" 

The long blade of the knife glistened as it hit spots of the streetlight glowing behind him. Jack's heart sank a degree as he caught sight of blood. The air was rancid and dirty, the stench of dried blood and new blood and near-death lurking in the shadows. 

"Tsk, tsk, Jack. Half the fun's in not knowing. But, my patience is growing thin. I think it's time to end this." 

"The hell it is. Don't you move another inch!" 

The corners of Frank's mouth lifted into an eerie half-smile as he ran the blade of the knife gently over the tips of his fingers, back and forth in a pattern, bits of his blood mixing with Samantha's. 

"She's beautiful, Jack. Or...she was, anyway." 

Jack's fingers tightened around the barrell, pinching the trigger, awaiting a release. 

Frank ran a finger once more over the blade and let it rest at his side as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper. 

"You know, Jack, she screamed for you." 

He sensed Danny's movement as he bolted to Jack's side, rooting him to the spot. His finger shook on the trigger with an unmasked anger and his voice spat pure venom as he dripped the words from his mouth. 

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Frank. Now, where is Samantha?!" 

His voice was a perfect mix of controlled anger and desperation, his syllables coming in brief stoccatos as he leveled the gun at Frank's head. 

Frank's free hand reached into his jacket as he spoke his final words. Danny moved forward, anticipating the worst. 

"Time's up, Jack." 

What happened next was a blur; a mass of images and sounds that hazed together. Frank's hands slowly brought up a gun as he fired off multiple shots and spun to the left, aiming at what the two agents finally realized was Samantha, bound and gagged and unconscious in the darkened corner. 

Danny and Jack dove to the left and Jack whirled back as the impact of a bullet hit him in the shoulder. He whirled around and released the trigger he'd been barely restraining himself against, firing into the darkness until the shots ceased. 

He shouted to the walkie-talkie, demanding an ambulance, and pushed aside the fire rising through his body as his muscles protested movement. His only concern was the huddled mass in the corner who had yet to speak or move. 

A dozen lights illuminated the eerily quiet cabin as multiple cars pulled up. Jack caught sight of Danny who quickly stashed his gun back into its holster and knelt next to Samantha. His face was a mixture of shock and worry and panic at her stillness. 

He brushed a lock of hair back from her eyes and whispered her name. Jack knelt next to the two and reached out a bloody hand to Samantha's soft, bruised skin, willing her to just look at him, even for a brief second; to assure him that he'd never again have to worry about that void in his life; that he'd never have to worry about forgetting her face or her voice. 

The paramedics moved in and forced Jack away from the sight he'd been imagining in his mind since she'd disappeared. His mind grew foggy from the pain and he leaned against the stretcher, watching as Danny slipped his arms underneath Sam with an affectionate ease, tucking her battered body against his warm one, protecting her from the rain and cold. 

It was the last sight he saw before slipping into a blissful, drug-induced stupor. 

* 

He thought of her again. 

He always did. 

It was the only thing that made sense right now. 

The only thing that made sense ever. 

His right arm moved with limited capacity, strung up in a sling. The pain was dim and minimal and he had to really think about it to even be aware of it. 

Her face was pale and marred, her innocence shattered and broken. It pained him and broke him, but he tried to focus on what he knew, on what he had. She was here and alive and still beautiful. Her chest still rose and fell and she still had her eyes and smile and voice and everything that made her Samantha Spade. 

His left hand moved to brush a few stray locks from her face, feathering gently over her bruised skin. 

She moved against his hand and opened her eyes, blinking away the haze that came with morphine and pain. 

"Jack?" 

She sounded unsure and confused, too reluctant yet to believe it was true; to believe she was safe and he was here. 

He leaned closer and brushed a kiss against her forehead. 

"I'm here, Sam." 

She blinked once, fatigue already overtaking her again. 

"Did you--" 

He continued stroking her hair, soothing away the nightmares...for now. 

"We got him, Sam. He's dead." 

Her eyes shut this time. 

"You're safe, I promise." 

Her breath evened out and he smiled. She was safe. 

And in that pause, that moment...he loved her. 

* 

FIN 


	8. Epilogue

**A/N:** Okay, how could I refuse the pleas of my fellow Maple Street comrades? Here it is, an epilogue. I can't say much only that I hope you like it. Enjoy! 

* 

He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd ever get used to it. 

Darkness. 

Like a leech, it clung to him, dwelled in him, attached itself and never let go. She had returned to him. He would've regarded this as nothing less than a miracle were it not for the simple fact that he had failed her before she had even disappeared. 

Not in the way a parent forgets their child's dance recital; or in the way a clumsy husband forgets an anniversary. Not in the way you shrink away from obstacles or even in the way you brush aside that night to study before finals, nonchalanty bidding your good grade goodbye. 

No. He had failed her more deeply, more profoundly. 

He failed her because he couldn't save her. Not then, not when it mattered. He couldn't forestall a wound that would bleed her dry and leave her half-empty, a mere shadow of Samantha Spade. There's a light on, a dim one; a tiny lamp in the corner splashing a miniscule beam across the room. Not enough to matter. He pulled the key out of his pocket, jingling it between his fingers. It was a familiar weight, a welcome weight. He feared he wouldn't see it again, would have no need for it. 

It slipped into the tiny lock easily, turning with little resistance or wear and he pushed open the wooden door gently, hoping she had allowed herself a break from consciousness. A few dirty dishes lay deliberately in the sink. A smell hung in the room; chicken, he thought, or an old frozen dinner. Remnants of her half-hearted attempt at laundry lay in a neat pile in the hallway, waiting to be cleaned or moved or thrown in with the rest of the dirty clothes. 

An old song played softly from her bedroom. Springsteen. 

Her quiet form rested against the back of her couch. There was a fatigue in her features, a need to escape. 

"I'm awake, Jack." 

Faint, though it was, he heard it above the dim music and approached her with a hesitancy he couldn't yet comprehend. He was afraid to be near her. Afraid he brought a string of misfortune in his wake that he only wished he could shield her from forever; that he could erase the last week from memory, dismiss it as a bad dream. But it wasn't going away, and for the moment, neither was he. 

Positioning himself next to her, he settled an arm across her shoulders. 

"How are you feeling?" 

She stared ahead at the wall before her, studying the pictures framed against the solid interior like a watercolor of memories and old ghosts. 

"I have trouble sleeping." 

She wrapped her arms within herself, protecting her fragile sanity against the nightmares. 

"He uh, he's there. In my dreams. I forget sometimes that he's really dead, you know? Like I'm gonna wake up any minute and still be there." 

A sting rose through him, a painful reminder of his failure. 

"But it's getting better, Jack. It is." 

This eased his guilt for the moment. A tiny part of him, he supposed, would always blame himself, would always reprimand his inability to find her sooner, to have let her disappear in the first place. Time perhaps didn't heal all wounds, but it did provide a soft cushion between the rawness of his mistakes and the dull scar they became. 

"You sure you're ready to go back tomorrow?" 

"I always have been." 

She leaned closer to him. She knew, instinctively, what he wanted to say; to apologize, to ask forgiveness for letting this happen. Reassurances, she knew, would fall on deaf ears. His heart was heavy and closed off and simply aching for a release. His breath was hot upon her skin as she leaned ever more closely into his face, finally resting her lips on his as she drew her eyes shut and allowed herself this release; allowed herself to fall into him. 

The nightmares would still come, painful, fresh. But then, like all things, they would fade away to a single thought. Tonight Jack was here. He would stay. He had come as she knew he would and he would again a thousand times over. 

It kept the nightmares at bay for now; the knowledge that he was hers and would remain so and tonight, the darkness didn't scare her. 

Tonight, they were one. 

* 

FIN 

...for real, this time 


End file.
